"How have you been?"

Ah, the unaviodable first week question.

How have I been?

I always go on a roll about how it is impossible to know how a person has "been" unless they tell you all of the current events in their life, and their feelings towards those events. Then you can know "how" a person "is."

But I guess I'm just like that.

Ashlee asked me to tell her the best and worst things that happened this summer...

Best: Visiting my Dad in Toronto.
Worst: Sarah and I not working out. (Though I said it much more melodramatically...)

My personal flaws are all the more evident to me.

I had an argument with my dad today. He said some insulting things about certain people. This may be seen as arrogant, but I tried to "teach him a lesson," by pointing out similar character flaws in him that he pointed out in the people.

The idea was that he would see that they wouldn't appreciate it as much as he doesn't. It didn't work, and above that, I crossed the line into parental disrespect. I intend to apologize for this, but I am at a loss, because I don't want to apologize in a way that makes him think that I've concluded that my position is wrong, nor do I want my apology to spark another argument.

Pointing out the flaws of others, makes me realize how much of a sinner I am.
(Criticism as inspiration?)
It's bad. I need to pull that big log out of my eye, I think.

Otherwise...

I went camping at Bon Echo Provincial Park on the weekend. It was with the "Young Adults" group at my church. Those present were: Heather, Kim, Sarah, Josh, Tonya, Steve, Mark, Ellen, and myself. We went on a 6.5 hour canoe trip. Portages are both humbling and character building. However my self-centredness did lead to a minor argument with Sarah. (Again, more evidence of my flaws...)

The most beautiful part was canoeing through Mazinaw Lake beside Mazinaw Rock. Amongst many Native pictographs (from an era past) is an incription from Walt Whitman (the father of Modern Poetry). It brings me to tears thinking about it.

"Old Walt"

Your words etched in the rock, breaking the water.
Still there, forever, greeting me as I sing.

Your words etched by a different hand, my fingers in the cracks:

Of democracy I sing.
Of working men, with their tired lives and broken eyes.
Their flat words, empty, they sing.

Reverberate off pale walls.
Sing them your songs.

Of dignity and value I sing, and all are equal.
Of lonliness and dead ideals,
Shattered love I sing.

Oh, my tongue is not worthy of the Muse!

Of Postmodern Man I sing, and my voice cracks with the sound.